The Highlanders: A Smitten Historical Romance Collection

by J'nell Ciesielski

  “I see.” His mouth drooped under his waxy mustache. “Perhaps another time, then.” He released her hand and clapped his hat on his head.

  “Goodnight, Mr. Godfrey.”

  He started down the porch steps, then suddenly turned back, smiling. “Miss Marchmont, I just remembered. I believe there will be a repeat performance of the symphony concert at three o’clock Sunday afternoon. Perhaps you’d like to attend that one instead.”

  Rose scrambled for a plausible excuse. “Oh, I don’t think—”

  “She’d love to,” Daisy interjected. “Wouldn’t you, Rose?”

  At that moment, Rose could have cheerfully wrung her sister’s neck. “But don’t we have something else planned for next Sunday?” she said meaningfully, hoping Daisy would take the hint.

  “Not a thing, other than church,” Daisy chirped. “How thoughtful of Mr. Godfrey to invite you.”

  “It’s all settled, then,” the man said with an air of satisfaction. “I’ll join you at church. We’ll have to leave directly after the service to make it to Coeur d’Alene in time to enjoy a bite to eat before the concert.” He gave Rose a smug smile and tugged the end of his mustache. “You’ll get to ride in my new automobile.”

  Rose worked up a weak smile. Goody, goody.

  “Oh, won’t that be delightful, Rose,” Daisy said, her eyes alight. “You haven’t heard a good concert since leaving Chicago.”

  “Delightful,” Rose repeated, devoid of enthusiasm.

  “I’ll see you Sunday, then.” Miles trotted down the steps, whistling.

  When Robert had closed the door behind their guest and retreated to the safety of the parlor and his pipe, Rose wheeled on Daisy. “Why did you do that?”

  Daisy blinked. “Do what?”

  “Accept an invitation on my behalf.”

  Daisy thrust out her lower lip. “Because if I’d waited for you to do it, we’d have stood here half the night.”

  “Did it ever occur to you I might not want to go?”

  “Why not? Miles Godfrey is a perfectly nice man who appreciates music as much as you do. You’ll enjoy the concert.”

  “The concert, perhaps. Mr. Godfrey’s company, I’m afraid not.”

  “Oh, Rose, don’t be so stuffy. An eligible gentleman doesn’t come along every day.”

  “I’m not looking for one.”

  Daisy sighed. “Honestly, Rose, it’s just one afternoon out of your lifetime. Perhaps Mr. Godfrey isn’t the most scintillating man on earth. But still waters run deep, as the old proverb says. Maybe you’ll like him better once you get to know him.”

  Rose crossed her arms. “I’d rather decide for myself whom to get to know better, thank you very much.”

  Daisy glanced upward as if appealing to the Almighty for help. “Left to your own devices, you’re liable to choose some ruffian from the wrong part of town. You’re going to that concert with Mr. Godfrey, and I won’t hear another word about it.”

  Rose conceded with a sigh. She did love the symphony. Perhaps the performance would be absorbing enough that she could lose herself in the music and not have to interact too much with the man sitting beside her.

  The following day—the weekly washday—Rose helped her sister haul baskets of wet laundry from the basement washtub to the backyard clothesline. Wanting to broach the subject of Callan MacTavish, she chose her moment carefully. Washing the laundry tended to put Daisy in a grumpy mood, but hanging things to dry usually cheered her up, especially on a pretty spring day like this one. Rose waited until her sister smiled and remarked, “Just look at those gorgeous tulips,” before speaking.

  “Guess what,” she said with practiced casualness as she took a wet towel from the basket. “It looks as if I might be getting my first music student.”

  “Really? That’s wonderful news. Who is it?” Daisy lifted a wooden clothespin and pegged a pillowcase to the line.

  Rose spoke carefully. “A Mr. Callan MacTavish.”

  Daisy quirked an eyebrow. “MacTavish? I don’t know the name. Is he local?” She glanced at Rose. “And ‘mister’? A grown man? I thought you’d be teaching children.”

  “That’s what I thought, too,” Rose said, shaking out the folds of her favorite white blouse with the pin-tucked front. “But I’m not exactly in a position to be choosy. I need paying students, and Mr. MacTavish is prepared to pay.”

  Daisy’s brow furrowed. “Teaching a grown man to play the violin seems rather … unconventional.” She pinned a damp dishcloth to the line. “But I suppose a student is a student. Since he’s an adult male, though, take care that he only comes over when Robert and I are at home. It’s not proper for you to be in the house with him by yourself.”

  “He’s going to come on Saturday nights after supper. You’re almost always at home then.”

  Daisy huffed, blowing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. “Yes, we are, but Saturday nights are meant for relaxing with friends and family or for going out with nice men like Mr. Godfrey, not giving music lessons.”

  “I don’t mind,” Rose said. “It’s the only night Mr. MacTavish is in town.”

  “I see. Is he a salesman or something, on the road throughout the week?”

  “No.”

  “What, then?”

  Rose bit her lip, then added in a rush. “You see, he spends all week up in the woods. He only comes down on Saturdays. He’s a logger.”

  “A logger!” Daisy gaped at her. “One of those rough men who take over downtown every week?” She shook her head. “No. Absolutely not. What have I told you? Those loggers are nothing but ruffians. I won’t have one tracking his dirty boots through my house.”

  “This one’s different,” Rose insisted. “He’s polite and well spoken, not at all like the others.”

  Daisy eyed her suspiciously. “You’ve spoken to him? When?”

  “Last Saturday.” Rose’s face heated. “He discovered I’m a music teacher and … and wanted to talk about music. He’s quite fond of Brahms and Beethoven. Does that sound like a ruffian to you?”

  “Well, no,” her sister admitted. “But if he’s so refined, what’s he doing working in the woods? Why isn’t he a professor or a dentist or something less … rugged?”

  The conversation started to grate on Rose’s nerves. “I’m sure I don’t know why he’s not a dentist,” she said dryly. “I didn’t think to ask him. The conversation didn’t delve into his personal motivations. He wants to study music, he’s willing to pay for lessons, and I’m looking for students. That’s as far as we got.” She stabbed a shirt to the line with vigor.

  “There’s no need to be prickly,” Daisy said. “I’m just watching out for your best interests.”

  “For goodness’ sake, my interests are doing fine on their own.”

  “Not if Jeremy Pyle is any indication.”

  Rose recoiled from the stinging remark. “What’s Jeremy got to do with anything?”

  Daisy pinned another dishcloth to the line. “I’m just saying that, apparently, you need a little guidance in the romance arena.”

  “Who’s talking about romance? We’re talking about music lessons. And by the way, if it relieves your mind at all, Mr. MacTavish is a churchgoer, too,” Rose added. “Remember, we saw him there on Sunday and the Sunday before that. You even commented on him once.”

  Daisy thought for a moment. “You mean that tall, clumsy fellow in the back pew?” She sounded relieved and disappointed at the same time.

  Rose pressed on. “Daisy, I’m going to be teaching the man how to play the violin, not marrying him. And having one music student will make it easier to attract some others, don’t you think?”

  At last, Daisy relented. “Oh, I suppose it’s all right. As long as he’s willing to pay top dollar for taking up your time.” She peered at Rose over the clothesline. “But mind you toss him out the door if he acts improperly toward you in the slightest.”

  “If he tries anything of the sort, I’ll give him the boot,” Ros
e said. “But you need to promise me something in return.”

  Daisy picked up the empty laundry basket. “Like what?”

  “Promise me you’ll give him a fair shake, and not make judgments about him before you get to know him.”

  Daisy considered this, then nodded. “Agreed. I will strive to be fair and just. Even if he is just a lumberjack.”

  Chapter 5

  THE FOLLOWING SATURDAY, IN the large upstairs room at Mrs. Donovan’s rooming house, Lars and Mick watched as Callan stood before the crooked mirror, brushing the lint from his blue serge suit.

  “Who are you goin to see, all spiffed up like that?” Mick asked. He elbowed Callan out of the way so he could see his own image in the mirror as he combed macassar oil through his dark hair.

  “A young lady,” Callan said, “and I’m needin to make tracks. She starts chargin at seven sharp.” The words sounded wrong the moment they left his mouth, but he was too late to stop them.

  “You’re payin to see a girl?” Lars’ mouth gaped. “Man, you shouldn’t have to pay. With your strappin good looks, you’d have no trouble convincing a young lady to pass some time with you. Even Mick here, with a face like a gargoyle, managed to get a date with Trixie.”

  “Who you callin a gargoyle?” Mick said, grabbing Lars in a good-natured headlock.

  Callan’s face heated. He raised his voice. “Nay, I’m not payin for her company. Not like that. Get yer minds out of the gutter.”

  Mick released Lars and slapped his own knee in amusement. “Goldarn it, man, if we’re so thick-headed, you’ll have to explain it to us, then.”

  Callan adjusted his shirt collar in the mirror. “The situation’s a wee bit complicated.”

  “Bet it is,” Lars said. He and Mick chuckled and poked each other in the ribs.

  Annoyance prickled the back of Callan’s neck. “Nay, ’tis not what ye think.” Hearing Rose jested about in such a coarse way, even if the men had never met her, made his fists clench. He paused, collected his wits, then sighed. They were bound to find out the truth sooner or later. “If ye must know, I’m takin a music lesson.”

  His friends gaped at him for a moment, then burst into gleeful laughter.

  “Saturday night in a whole town filled with shiny lights and even shinier women, and you’re taking a music lesson?” Mick turned to Lars. “You weren’t kidding when you said he was different from anybody else.”

  Lars shrugged. “Leaves more fun for the rest of us.”

  Callan paid them no mind. Let them waste their time in boozing and brawling. He had better things to do.

  On the short walk between the rooming house and the house next door, he plucked a rose from the landlady’s garden and hastily flicked off the thorns with his thumbnail. A rose for a Rose. Pleased with his little verse, he knocked on the neighbors’ door and was admitted by Daisy. She greeted him coolly but cordially, then spotted the long-stemmed rose.

  “No need to bring flowers to your music lesson, Mr. MacTavish. It’s not a social call.” He caught a note of warning in her voice.

  With his free hand, he removed his hat and inclined his head. “I dinna wish to offend, ma’am.” He held the stem toward her. “I just thought a bright bloom like this one might add a wee bit of color to the parlor.”

  “I see.” She took it from him. “Well, that’s very thoughtful of you, then. I’ll find a vase.” She gestured toward the back of the room. “You can go straight on back, through that doorway. Miss Marchmont is waiting for you.”

  He entered the back parlor, hat in hand. Rose smoothed her skirt as she stood to greet him.

  “Good evening, Mr. MacTavish.”

  She wore a black skirt and black-and-white striped blouse with puffed sleeves that stopped at the elbow. Her blond hair was tied in back with a black grosgrain ribbon. In her slender arms, she held a violin and bow.

  “Good evenin, Miss … Marchmont, I believe your sister said.”

  “That’s right.”

  Two wooden folding chairs were set up in front of a black metal music stand. She invited him to sit in one, and she took the other.

  “Now. Shall we begin? You can use this old violin.” She held the instrument toward him. “It belonged to my father until he bought himself a new one. He’s a big man like you, so it should fit you and be comfortable for you to play. Try it out. Just hold the violin under your chin like so, and …”

  Gently he pushed the instrument away. “Thank ye, but I willna be needin a violin.”

  “Oh? Do you already have one?” She looked confused. “Why didn’t you bring it with you?”

  “Nay, I dinna have one.”

  Her expression tightened. “Then how do you propose to learn how to play?”

  He shook his head. “Like I told ye, I’m not here for lessons. I’m happy to pay an hour’s fee only to hear ye play.”

  She regarded him distrustfully for a moment, then said, “Nonsense. Here, take the bow in your right hand.” She thrust it at him.

  “Ah, there’s the rub,” he said. He lifted his right hand so she could get a good look at it. When she saw the two stumps where there once were fingers, her cheeks turned pale. Slowly she lowered the bow to her lap.

  “Oh, my.” Her sapphire eyes glistened in the lamplight.

  “So ye see, ’tis quite impossible for me to play that thing.” He tried to give her his most heart-melting smile, the one that in his youth had earned him an extra meat pie or sweet biscuit from the neighbor ladies in his village. “Let me just listen to ye play, and I’ll be a happy customer.”

  She sat up and squared her narrow shoulders. “You’re wrong, Mr. MacTavish. It’s not impossible for you to play. You’ll just have to handle the instrument a little differently, that’s all.” Again, she held out the bow. “In fact, I recently read an article in an academic journal that said that learning a musical instrument can be very beneficial to people recovering from injuries.”

  Again, he pushed it away. “T’ain’t recoverin I’m doin, lass. I’m afraid my circumstance is a permanent state of affairs.”

  She persisted. “You can still hold the bow, thus. Just balance it carefully between your thumb and … and your remaining fingers. Like this.” She demonstrated, holding the bow using only her thumb, index finger, and little finger. The other two she held out of the way. “Now you try it.”

  She leaned toward him, so close he could breathe in the light violet scent of her hair. She placed the end of the bow into his fist and firmly moved his remaining fingers into position. Then she let go of the bow. It thudded to the carpeted floor.

  “’Tis no use,” Callan said. “I canna do it.”

  “Yes, you can,” she insisted, sounding every bit the determined teacher chiding a reluctant pupil. “Try again.”

  “Nay.” He picked up the bow from the floor, then handed it back to her. “You need not try to fix me, lass. Just play for me. I want to hear you play.”

  “But you’re paying good money for—”

  He held up his hand and closed his eyes. “Just … play.”

  She pushed out her lower lip. Then she stood, walked briskly over to a table, and replaced the violin in its case. He thought she was going to order him to leave, but instead, she opened a second case and pulled out a different violin.

  “My father’s old violin is too big for me,” she explained as she sat back down. “Mine’s a better fit.” She looked expectantly at Callan. “What do you want to hear?”

  “Brahms.” A warm sensation filled his chest. She was going along with his wishes. He could hardly believe his good fortune to be given a private concert by such a fine musician, and a comely one too.

  She reached toward the music stand and flipped open a score, then lifted the instrument and settled it under her chin. As opening notes of the Brahms sonata filled the room, Callan closed his eyes, the dull ache in his heart both sharpened and soothed at the same time. He didn’t know if this strange effect was caused by the music or by the nea
rness of her. Or both. But he didn’t care. He just let the notes wrap around him like a blanket.

  Far too soon, a sharp rap came on the door, and her sister’s voice said, “The hour is up. The lesson is over. Time to be on your way, Mr. MacTavish.”

  He started as if woken from a dream, yet he knew he hadn’t been sleeping. Just floating along with the music.

  “Aye,” he called. “I’m goin.”

  He stood and reached for his hat. “Thank ye, Miss Marchmont. May I come for another lesson next week?”

  She looked at him with wide eyes, as if she, too, were surprised at the effect her playing had had on both of them.

  “Yes,” she said. “And since we’ll be working together, you may call me Rose.”

  “I’m Callan.” He reached into his billfold, pulled out some bills, and handed them to her. She walked over to a small desk, wrote him a receipt, and tore it from the pad. He folded it and put it in his breast pocket.

  “Here,” she said, handing him the case that held her father’s violin. “Take it with you. I’m not going to need it.”

  “What about yer other students?”

  “I have a child-sized violin for them. If they ever come.”

  “They will. Yer an excellent teacher.”

  “How would you know? You haven’t seen me teach.”

  He looked at her with tenderness. “I just know. I can tell.”

  She straightened her spine. “Well, if that’s the case, I must give you an assignment. Your assignment during the week is to practice holding the bow. I’m sure you can learn to do it if you try. I know you can. I have confidence in you.”

  “’Tis no use,” he said, but he accepted the case anyway. Seeing it sitting in his bunkhouse locker would be a pleasant reminder of her all week long.

  After he’d gone, Rose watched him cross the lawn and disappear into the rooming house. Such a strange man. So unlike anyone she’d ever met. And yet … he made her laugh. His soft, warm Scottish burr made everything he said sound intriguing. And if she could help him regain some dexterity in that damaged hand of his, well … her heart swelled at the thought she might be able to help him.